


SherlolliShots - Someone Else

by Liathwen



Series: SherlolliShots [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Break Up and Make Up, F/M, Fluff, Sherlock is an idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 07:38:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2539715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liathwen/pseuds/Liathwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anon - This is for the ficlet giveaway. I have read a lot of fics where Molly is worried Sherlock is cheating on her (even though it's not true) and I always wanted to read a fic where it is reversed. I want to see what it would be like if Sherlock thought Molly was cheating on him. If it ends in smut all the better. Oh, and I love you, but you probably already knew that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	SherlolliShots - Someone Else

**Author's Note:**

> I love you too whoever you are.

“Get out. Now.” Molly’s voice was even quieter than normal. It carried an edge of steel, something that was not often heard in her sweet tones. Even less often was it directed at the Consulting Detective currently staring at her, his face pale and etched with regret coupled with a healthy dose of fear.

“Molly, I,” he began but she wearily raised her arm and pointed at the door, not looking at him. He hung his head, and slowly made his way to the entrance to Molly’s flat, his eyes never leaving his feet. He let himself out and numbly made his way out of her building and began walking aimlessly through London, his mind whirling and his heart heavy.

It began innocently, like most things do. Sherlock had finally gotten up the courage to admit to his feelings for the small woman after finding her bound and gagged in a warehouse, after taking out Moriarty, this time for good. He’d scooped her up and carried her out, whispering all the while that he was so so sorry and that he’d never let this happen to her again. That he would cherish and protect her. Because he loved her. She’d scarcely believed him at first, the many horrible things he’d said to her in the past still fresh in her memory. He’d convinced her though, and they’d embarked on a relationship.

He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t rocky at times. He often did and said things that hurt her, but he had never done it intentionally. Before today that is.

Sherlock heaved a sigh, running his fingers though his hair. He finally looked up, and realized that his feet had taken him to John’s house. He bit his lip. John and Mary would be furious with him. But they’d know what to do, how he could fix this mess he’d made. So he knocked, and waited.

“Sherlock.”

Mary opened the door and gave Sherlock a cool stare.

“Mary. I see you already know.”

“I don’t know details,” replied the blonde, while motioning for the detective to enter, and closing the door behind him. “All I know is that Molly called a while ago and said that John needed to go find you, that it was most likely a danger night. Which means something happened between you two. And knowing what we do of both your characters, I’m assuming you’re to blame.”

Sherlock merely nodded and followed Mary into the sitting room, where John was seated with baby Amanda on his lap. Sherlock gave a curt nod, which was returned and they all sat in silence for a moment.

“Spill.”

Mary gave the order, and Sherlock blew out a long breath of air before beginning his tale.

“Molly has been working more and more hours lately, and I couldn’t,” he choked and shook his head, “no, I DIDN’T see what could possibly be taking so much time. I thought, I was afraid that it was someone else. That she was seeing someone else. Because no matter how much she worked and how tired she was when she got home, she was always so happy. And I figured that she was seeing someone who made her happy. And I was afraid, so afraid that she’d finally decided that I wasn’t worth it. That I wasn’t good enough for her. That,” he heaved a shuddering sigh. “That she didn’t love me anymore.”

All three adults in the room had tears in their eyes, for while Sherlock was foolish for thinking that way, Mary and John knew enough about him to know that his fear was genuine. Before John, Sherlock let no one in. He was alone in the world. When John broke through the walls around the Consulting Detective’s heart and became his friend, Sherlock slowly let other people enter too. And finally was able to allow himself to be vulnerable enough to admit his love for Molly.

“So I looked through her things for signs of someone else. And I didn’t find anything. So I got frustrated and Molly came home while I was there and,” he shook his head, “I don’t know, I just lost it. I demanded that she tell me who she was seeing and I,” he clenched a fist and held it near his stomach, as if it literally pained him to speak, “I yelled at her. I called her names. I told her that I never loved her. I lied. I lied to her and I’m so afraid. I’m so afraid that she will hate me forever. And I couldn’t bear that.”

John sighed and passed a hand over his eyes, before handing his daughter to Mary, who discreetly left the two friends to talk.

A long time passed with both men deep in thought, until finally John spoke.

“Sherlock, this isn’t going to be easy to fix. You know Molly’s been waiting for the other shoe to drop ever since you two started dating. It won’t be easy to convince her that you didn’t mean what you said to her.”

Sherlock looked perplexed. “Why John? Why would she think that I don’t love her? I know I said things to her in the past but surely my actions have shown her that I truly regret my past actions.”

“It’s not that simple, Sherlock. A woman is, more difficult. I once heard someone say that if you tell a woman she’s beautiful, she’ll remember for a day but if you tell her she’s ugly, she’ll remember it a year. They hoard all those things inside them, afraid that they are what we really feel. It’s so hard to get them to believe that you were just angry.”

John broke off and looked to the door that Mary had disappeared through some time earlier. Sherlock followed his gaze, understanding that John spoke from experience. He hadn’t been kind to Mary when her deception was uncovered and he’d said many things that he hadn’t meant. Sherlock knew that John had been trying to repair the damage ever since and that Mary still feared that he would wake up one morning and decide that he wanted nothing more to do with her.

John sighed deeply. “God, Sherlock. I don’t know. I just don’t know how you are going to fix this.”

Sherlock stood after a moment and headed for the door, his movements sluggish, with none of the manic energy that John was so used to. The former army doctor stood as well, making to grab his friend’s arm. He knew that this was possibly Sherlock’s biggest danger night to date and wanted to stop him from leaving. Sherlock shook his head though.

“I need to think, John. Alone, away from distractions. I won’t,” he licked his lips and his gaze dropped to the floor, “I won’t be in any danger.”

He looked back up at John with an unbearably forlorn expression on his face, turning his mouth down and accentuating the lines on his face.

“Molly wouldn’t like that.”

John immediately dropped his hand, nodding at the detective. He knew that Sherlock wouldn’t relapse again, not tonight. Not while he still had any shred of hope that the woman he loved would take him back.

Sherlock hailed a cab once he was outside, and directed the cabbie to take him back to Baker Street. He stared, unseeing, out the window for the duration of the trip, his mind far away. The cabbie had to shout to get his attention when they arrived at the flat and Sherlock grimaced, handing the man some money, not bothering to wait for his change.

He opened the door and made his way slowly up the stairs, his feet heavy and actions lethargic. It was as if all the life had been sucked out of him, left behind in the flat with the tiny woman with the expressive brown eyes.

He didn’t bother shedding his outerwear, settling onto the couch with his Belstaff and scarf still hugging his chilled body. The coolness he felt was not from the cold winter air outside, but from within. His fire, his drive, everything that made him Sherlock was missing. He blew out a long breath and lay back, stretching out over the length of the couch, and steepled his fingers once more, delving into his mind palace, searching for the pathologist with the gentle smile and soft voice.

* * *

Three days later, Sherlock found himself outside of Molly’s flat, too terrified to knock on her door. He could heard the sounds of her telly, a low, indistinguishable murmur through the wood. He was terrified, genuinely terrified that she’d shut him out, that he’d never feel the warm of her body pressed against his as they slept, never hear the sound of her voice drifting out of the bathroom as she sang ridiculous pop songs in the shower, never taste the sticky cherry flavored lip balm she stubbornly refused to change every time he mentioned it. He considered fleeing, but his overwhelming need to see her, hold her, apologize for his asinine behavior was stronger than his fear.

He managed to hold his ground and reached up, timidly rapping on the door. The sounds from the telly continued, and there was no movement from inside the flat. His brow furrowed. Was she not going to let him in? He hadn’t even considered the possibility that she might not open the door for him. The woman he knew wouldn’t shut anyone out, no matter how badly they hurt her. She was too kind, too sweet, to deny anyone the chance to say what they wished.

Nevertheless, the door stood firmly closed, dulling the garbled voices of the telly. He leaned against the cool wood, resting his forehead against it and sighed heavily.

“Molly, please let me in.”

Nothing. No sound, no movement from within the flat. He drew back, puzzled. She’d called in her vacation time from Bart’s, Sherlock had discovered that little fact when he snuck in the service entrance to catch a peek at her while she worked.

_She hates me._

Sherlock felt as if his lungs collapsed from the force of the air leaving his body. The pain caused by the thought of Molly Hooper despising him was worse than any physical pain he’d ever experienced, including the time he’d flat lined due to blood loss from a bullet wound. It was a miracle he’d survived that; his determination and his attacker’s sentiment insured his continued existence.

Now, Sherlock wasn’t so sure he’d make it.

He turned abruptly, sinking down to the floor with his back to the door. His spindly legs were drawn up, knees in the air, feet up close to his arse; he knew it looked ridiculous, all splayed long limbs, but he was far from caring.

He tucked his head into his arms, hiding his face from the world, unwilling that someone should see the tears that welled in his piercing blue gaze.

“Molly-” his voice was ragged, raw with emotion and fear.

“Molly please, if you won’t open the door at least listen to me. Please– I– I’m so sorry. I was so afraid. You’re- you’re everything to me. I can’t imagine life without you, I can’t THINK without you. You’re my mind palace, you’re everywhere I look, all I see. I can’t concentrate, can’t focus, can’t breathe when you’re gone. You’ve saved me so many times, in so many ways, and I don’t know what I’ll do if you stopped caring, if you didn’t love me anymore. It’s not the work anymore, it’s not the only thing that matters. You are. You’re the only thing that matters to me. I’ll do anything. I’ll stop taking cases. I can be what you need me to be, I promise. I’ll do anything. Anything, Just please,” his voice cracked and he choked, “Please love me.”

He finally broke and a ragged cry tore from his throat, and he gave in, his chest heaving with dry sobs. There wasn’t enough air, and Sherlock gasped for precious oxygen. The door behind him remained firmly closed and his heart shattered, a fragile glass structure breaking into a million pieces with no hope of repair.

A breath of air stirred in front of him and he lifted his tear-stained face towards it, sure that it was John or Lestrade, coming to collect him after Molly called them, wanting him away from her flat, out of her life.

Instead, stormy, bloodshot cerulean eyes met soft chocolate colored ones, and he sucked in a gasp of the stuffy heat of the hall. Not daring to move, he pleaded with her silently, his expressive face saying the words his lips couldn’t form.

After a long moment of soul searching, Molly’s gaze dropped and Sherlock panicked. Before he could think his hands were around her slender waist, pulling her off balance and making her fall from her squatting position into the space between his knees. He held her close, frantically murmuring apologies in between peppering her hair and face with light kisses.

Molly let him wrap his body around hers, let him cling to her, his anchor in the storm that was his existence. He prayed to every God he didn’t believe in that she’d always be his safe place.

Eventually his desperate affections slowed and she pulled back slightly, and Sherlock’s arms tightened around her, a silent plea to stay with him, though he loosened his grip when she winced. She reached up to slide her key in the knob above his head then turned it and pushed the door open, steadying him as he nearly feel back at the loss of his body’s support.

She still hadn’t spoken and Sherlock didn’t let go of her as he got to his feet and stood in the doorway. He felt a twinge of hope when she pulled him into the flat, closing the door behind them, but was growing more worried with each passing second of silence.

“Molly?” he questioned tentatively, his voice scratchy and almost inaudible. He didn’t know how long she’d been there, watching him fall apart in the hall, hearing the piteous begging pour from his lips.

Sherlock’s eyes searched her as she stood, still silent, her eyes fixed at a point off to the side, not once flitting in his direction. His hope dwindled and he hung his head, waiting for the dismissal he was sure would come from her sweet, never too small, mouth.

Finally, Molly heaved a sigh and tossed her keys onto the table, the clanging of metal breaking through the thick air. Sherlock jumped, despair written on his handsome features as he continued to wait for the only person he’d ever loved to tell him that she didn’t want him anymore.

“Do you love me?” Molly asked, and Sherlock’s head shot up, his dark curls mussed from where he’d run his hands through them countless times in his agitation.

“Yes, Molly. God yes I love you. I’ve always loved you. Please, just please.” Sherlock begged, and was unashamed of it. Where once The Woman had told him that she’d have him beg for her and he’d been repulsed by the indignity of it, Sherlock was completely without shame as he entreated Molly to believe his sincerity.

He loved her more than he could ever begin to prove and being separated from her was killing him.

“You always say the most awful things. Every time. Always.”

Molly held herself tightly, arms wrapped around her middle in a protective stance. It was shutting him out and Sherlock couldn’t bear it. He slowly, quietly approached her and took her hands in his much larger ones, unwinding her arms from her body and bringing both of her hands up to his mouth. He kissed her knuckles tenderly before replying.

“I know Molly. And I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry. I promise, I’ll try. I’ll try so hard if you’ll just,” he paused and swallowed, “if you can just please, please take me back. I’ll do anything. Anything you ask, I’ll do it, I swear.”

Her eyes finally met his, deep pain shining in them and he felt as if he was being stabbed, the cold steel twisting in his gut. He’d do anything to never see that look in his love’s face again.

“Please.” It was barely a whisper as his full lips formed the words.

An eternity later, Molly nodded slowly.

“I believe you Sherlock. I believe in you.”

She worked one of her hands free and stroked it across his cheek, tracing the prominent bone there and his eyes fluttered shut as he leaned into her feather soft touch.

“Take me back?” he breathed, eyes still closed.

A long pause and then a simple nod.

“Yes,” she answered, the word more an exhale than a syllable.

Sherlock’s eyes popped open, the icy azure of his gaze intense as he searched her face for the truth of her reply. Within a millisecond of his confirmation of the sincerity of her affirmation, his lips crashed on hers and he pulled the breath from her, kissing her as if the air he took from her could sustain his life.

In a way, it could.

The kiss was all passion and adoration, a tangible expression of his love for her, his worship of her.

She returned it with equal fervor and Sherlock would swear on everything holy that he could taste her affection for him. It was sweet on his tongue and he reveled in its tang, savoring the exquisite flavor.

He wanted, needed her to know how much she meant to him, how lost he would be without her.

He scooped her up, holding her bridal style, his lips still hungrily seeking hers, and carried her to the bedroom, kicking the unlatched door open and turning to fit through. He held her close to his chest, arms circled tightly around her, and marveled once again at how such a tiny body could house such a formidable soul. Molly was a pillar of strength, HIS pillar of strength and she’d never wavered, never crumbled under the weight of his warped humanity.

Sherlock sat on the bed with Molly still encased in his embrace, and kissed her again, letting his actions show her everything that couldn’t be expressed with mere words. She moaned softly, writhing in his arms, clutching him closer as he relearned the contours of her mouth, his tongue exploding its recesses. Sherlock twisted, just enough to set her on the bed and stand, leaning over her to follow the kiss down to the mattress. He carefully draped his body across hers as she stretched out across the duvet, pulling him to her, both of them loathe to give up the warmth of their embrace.

Finally, Sherlock broke the kiss and rested his forehead against hers.

“I love you, Molly Hooper,” he breathed as his clever fingers found the first button of her shirt.

From there, it wasn’t long before Sherlock was worshipping her body, wringing cries of ecstasy, sighs of contentment and whispers of love from her soft, kiss stung lips. He lost himself in her, the sound and scent and warmth of her all around him, making his long-denied heart swell with the most human emotion possible.

He made love to her slowly, their bodies intertwining in a languid rhythm, a push and pull of his soul and hers, heavy with unspoken promises.

When they finally reached their peak, and the sweat on their bodies was cooling as he held her, Sherlock pressed a light kiss to her lips. He held her as they drifted into a sated sleep, and he knew that no matter what, he'd never question her love for him again.


End file.
